


Got No Plans to Make it Stop

by RurouniHime



Series: Urban Architecture [2]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Confessions, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explanations, Explicit Sexual Content, Graysexual Newt, M/M, Misunderstandings, Protective Minho, Sequel, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: Sunday istheirday, and Newt's looking forward to it. Except that this weekend went off the rails about five minutes ago.(In which truths come to light and people get hurt.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a sequel piece to[Seems to Be Our Only Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111625/chapters/32514801) (9 chapter fic).** It can probably be read alone, but won't be nearly as coherent if you haven't read the first story. I sincerely recommend taking the prerequisite class first.
> 
> Thank you to coffeejunkii once again for the invaluable feedback!
> 
> Fic title is from _Sit Next to Me_ by Foster the People

_Baby, we're just reckless kids trying to find an island in the flood._

 

**Part I**

 

On Friday at five, Newt heads to Thomas's.

“I expect the real Newt Isaacs back at his desk by Monday, imposter,” Gally mutters, not even looking up from his drafting board.

“Bite me, mate.”

“Oh, there he is,” Gally calls after him as he pushes through the doors. The pavement is wet with recent rain, but the sun is shouldering through the clouds, lighting the asphalt golden. Newt fills his lungs with fresh, damp air, then lets it all out in a relieved gust. No edits, no backlog. No working through dinner. It’s nearly Saturday already, which means it’s almost Sunday, and Sundays… 

Sundays are special. Have been, ever since Tommy first came back. Not every Sunday, obviously; they do have other commitments in their lives. But as often as they can manage… Sundays.

The house is quiet. Newt has spent most of the week here, and therefore, so has Vince; he and Mary are a heap of gray and orange and black and white on the sunlit carpet beneath the window. Newt hooks his messenger bag over the nearest doorknob, kicks a few jingly toys out of the way, and heads for the sitting room.

Figures: as soon as he slumps down on the couch—a couch that is impossible to get up from, mind—his mobile rings. He wrestles with his jacket, trying to free his arm from the belt, then remembers it’s in his trouser pocket anyway, but by then it’s stopped. He fishes the phone out and tosses it aside without looking at it, settling his head back, only to have it immediately ring again. 

Minho. “Hello,” Newt says, wondering if he can carry on a successful conversation while asleep.

“You want to tell me why your boyfriend is on my couch, so drunk he can’t even sit up?”

 _Newt_ sits up. “What?”

“Just get over here. Please.”

Newt’s already scrambling for his keys.

**

He really isn’t expecting much. Tommy doesn’t drink often, but even he likes to cut loose once in a while.

But then Minho opens the door, and there is nothing happy or relaxed about him. He looks like he’s been yanking on his hair.

“What the hell is going on?” Newt demands, stymied on the doorstep. Minho just sighs and waves him in. He heads into his sitting room, barefoot, not even admonishing Newt for not kicking off his shoes, and that’s what really gets the nerves sparking. Minho has an unhealthy love affair with his carpeting and zero tolerance for dirt.

“This.” He gestures at the couch, and there’s Thomas, on his side with an arm dangling off the edge, wearing his favorite ratty gray jumper and jeans, looking like utter shit.

“Tommy,” Newt breathes, dropping to one knee beside the couch and touching a careful finger to his boyfriend’s wrist. He can smell the alcohol, yet there are no bottles in sight. The drinking either happened elsewhere or Minho cleared it away. But it’s not just that. Thomas’s eyes are red, puffy. He breathes the rhythm of the utterly exhausted, and there’s a nasal rattle that speaks of a raw throat. “How long has he been passed out?”

“Only since I called you.”

“Right, then.” Newt falters. Minho has the oddest look on his face. Almost hard. “What happened?”

Minho opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning. “I don’t want to do this here.”

“Do what?”

“Just—We should get him home.”

“Fine,” Newt says after a moment. “Can you follow us?”

“Of course.”

They get Thomas out to Newt’s car with little trouble, then Minho hops into his own car and follows Newt back to Thomas's house. Getting Thomas inside is a little trickier—older place, narrower spaces, and Thomas sags in their arms like all his weight has collected in his ankles—but finally they wrestle him out of his jumper and jeans, onto his side in bed with his head balanced on a pillow near the edge. Minho goes to the kitchen for water while Newt gets painkillers from the bathroom cupboard, then grabs the rubbish bin and sets it directly beneath Thomas’s face. Thomas barely stirs. 

Newt shrugs off his coat and sits on the edge of the bed. “Tommy?”

Thomas’s brow wrinkles, almost painfully. His eyelids flutter open. He blinks, fixes blearily.

“Tommy, wake up.” He grips Thomas’s hand. 

“Newt.” It’s barely a word. More a plea. His fingers tighten round Newt’s, then release and climb up his forearm. Thomas latches onto him, pulling Newt’s arm flush to his chest. A second later, he’s gone again, breathing raggedly into the pillow.

Newt drags his eyes away. He gets up, splays a hand over Minho’s chest, and backs him out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. He sits Minho down on the couch and drops into the armchair across from his friend. “What,” he hisses pointedly, “happened?”

“He started drinking. I didn’t realize how much, until suddenly he was cacked off his ass and not talking.” 

“What was he doing?” Newt asks.

“I don’t know, man.” But Minho drops his eyes. “He was crying.”

 _“Crying?”_ He hasn’t seen Tommy cry since the month before he first left for NYC.

“Look, I tried, Newt. I must have asked twenty times, all the way back to my place. He just shook his head. Eventually he fell asleep and I called you.”

“Yes, but did anything happen? Something at work, problems with a project or, I don’t know, the new contractor?” 

Minho sighs heavily. “He didn’t say anything about any of that. It was just our regular Friday drinks. He was looking forward to the weekend. He was fine.”

The zoning for Berkeley Unified? No, that’s a done deal, signed over to finance. Maybe it’s still about Newt turning down the business trip to Santiago. That had been a _good_ fight, more than a couple tense meals and disappointed glowers from Thomas, until Newt was tempted to go just to piss him off. But turning the trip down had never been just about being without Thomas for a month. It was technically Gally’s turn, even if Ava Paige did favor Newt over everyone else, and Newt had plenty to do here; he was fine with not going. He hadn’t even thought of it again until now. Plus, the makeup sex—well, the makeup everything had been memorable. “Alright, but what did he say? Did you say anything to him? Minho, you’ve got to watch him, he gets an idea in his head and he doesn’t think, he just blasts forward with it—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Minho snaps. “Jeez, I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known you.”

Newt puts up his hands. “Okay. Okay, you’re right.” He rubs his face, fighting down impatience. “Alright, what did you guys talk about then?”

He’s staring at Newt again. It itches up Newt’s spine. “A bunch of things.”

And that’s it. Nothing else. “Are you _angry?”_ When Minho doesn’t answer, Newt leans back and throws up his hands. “Great. Why?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Oh, right, what are you calling it then?”

“Frustration.”

“And I ask again: Why?”

“Because I know exactly what I said to him,” Minho bursts out. “To get him like this. I just really didn’t want to believe it.”

“Bloody hell, what did you tell him to mess him up so much?”

Minho looks down at his hands. “I… Okay, look, first, you know something’s going on with Teresa?”

It’s like the sound sucks out. Newt becomes aware of pain in his jaw, and… no, _no,_ that is _not_ what’s happening, but it’s where his mind jumps, almost as though it’s been spring-loaded. He dismisses it an instant later—that is not his Tommy, not ever—and sure enough:

“Oh, dude, no,” Minho says, sounding affectionate for the first time. He lurches upright and slides a hand over Newt’s back. “No.” 

Newt exhales roughly. “Just—slim it, Minho. I know, alright? Just… I know. Leave it, we’re leaving that.”

“Okay.” Minho nods, decisive. Newt drops his forehead into his hand.

Conversations he’s had recently with Thomas tick into new slots: there has been something up, and Thomas has voiced concerns. Worry for Teresa, for whatever she’s got going on with Brenda, the on-again, off-again, will they, won’t they, not sure what she wants out of this, not sure of much, really. “What’s going on with Teresa, then?”

“Newt, did you ever tell Thomas that you’re ace?”

Newt opens his mouth, and for several seconds, nothing comes out. “What?”

That hard look is back. “Because I did.”

“You…” Now the sound is hammering in his ears, strange, thudding. What the hell is going on here? Newt swallows. He can’t seem to catch up. “You said I was ace?”

Minho frowns at him. “Well, yeah. Gray-ace. Grace. Thomas says he thinks Teresa’s questioning her sexuality. He doesn’t know how to help her. I mean, he does, even if he doesn’t know it yet. He’s bi, I told him to draw on that. I brought up me because I’m pan, and Gally because he’s had poly relationships, and I brought up you.” And Newt tries to backtrack, but he still can’t think, and then suddenly Minho hunches forward again, too much movement all at once, and Newt pulls away. Minho stabs a finger in the direction of the bedroom. “Look, that guy loves you.”

“I know he does.”

“Like burning. Hell, six years and a whole continent couldn’t even touch that. That’s like, fairy tale shit.”

Newt forces himself to release the armrests. He hadn’t even realized he was clutching them. “Could you please not compare us to a Brothers Grimm hellscape?”

“Yeah, well, it felt like it sometimes,” Minho says, mutinous. His face contorts. _“Shit._ Newt, you really never told him you were gray?”

Newt winces at the volume. “Minho, keep your voice down!”

But Minho’s not paying attention to Newt anymore, too busy looking like the world has fallen on him. He pulls his hands through his hair, then shoots back against the couch. Rocks upright again. “What the ever-loving fuck were you thinking?”

The anger arrives, flushing into every cranny and clearing all blockages. “Don’t you dare act like I meant to hurt him! I would never—Don’t you fucking dare, Minho.”

“Well, then why?” Minho spreads both arms wide. “You told me. Why didn’t you tell him?”

Newt gapes at him, his belly oddly empty. “Because _I_ didn’t know!” Not for years. Not till well after Tommy had left for New York, well after Newt had deemed himself a failure again and again for not damn well getting over him already, _why, why can’t you just like these other guys like a normal person?_ Until he finally understood that this _was_ his normal, and there was indeed a word for it. “Telling you was part of figuring it the fuck out!”

Minho subsides, a bit. “Okay. Okay, but after?”

After? After that (before that, during that, always), he loved Tommy. Loved him, from the very center of himself, and then, then he actually had him again and words didn’t… they just didn’t.... “Wasn’t a big deal.”

Minho looks like Newt has slapped him, or hit Thomas. “Oh, it’s big deal, Newt!”

“I’m _me,_ Minho,” he says, sharp. “I’ve always been me, it’s never made any difference.”

“I know that. _I_ know that, but he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does!” Of course he does, he’s the one Newt’s having sex with.

“Just—” Minho gets to his feet, tugging his shirt. “Look, just talk to him. When he wakes up, ask him. Okay? I mean, maybe it’s not that at all, but…”

“Minho,” Newt warns, standing, but Minho comes around the couch and hugs him, so fiercely it hurts.

“I know,” he mutters. “I know, Newt.”

He’s so unsettled that it takes him nearly ten seconds to return Minho’s embrace, and in all that time, Minho doesn’t relinquish his hold, doesn’t move at all. 

“Talk to him,” Minho says when at last he pulls away. “Then text me. Okay? Both of you text me, I want to hear from you both tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Newt answers dully. His hands refuse to unclench; he has to remind himself to let go of Minho’s arms.

“Do you want me to stay?”

He thinks about it, then shakes his head. Nothing’s going to move forward until Thomas wakes up anyway. They’ve already established that. Further discussion is just going to tangle things further; Newt knows Thomas isn’t the only one who gets an idea in his head and runs with it, even though Newt’s race is a little bit different. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I need to think.” He hopes it isn’t as curt as it feels. But Minho just looks soft around the edges, as though Newt has smiled at him, or told a stupid joke.

When Minho leaves, the house is very quiet indeed.

“That can’t be it. Can’t be.” No way would Thomas drink himself stupid over Newt’s sexual preferences. It’s ridiculous, nothing has ever come up before in all the years they’ve known each other, in all the years they’ve been together. He shakes his head, goes into the kitchen and starts cooking the chicken he'd set out to defrost in the refrigerator before work. “No.”

But the thought is there now. It diffuses through him like poison, until he has no hope of straining it out anymore. After an uninspired meal, he goes in to check on Thomas and finds him breathing easily, on his back now with one hand slung across to Newt’s side of the bed, fingers pressing into his pillow. Newt repositions him on his side, just in case, and strokes his hair for a few minutes, lost in thought. Eventually he shuts off the lights and just lies down beside Thomas, listening to him breathe.

**

When he wakes, Thomas is already out of bed.

Newt sits up, rubbing a hand down one arm and looking around. The curtains are still drawn, but it’s bright out, sunlight leaking in around the edges. Late in the morning, if it’s still morning at all.

It’s… Saturday. Newt falls back to the mattress, pinching the bridge of his nose. Feels like an entire week has passed. His head aches; unsettling dreams he can’t remember have left a pit in his stomach. The glass of water and the pills he left on Thomas’s bedside table are gone. He sighs, and stares up at the ceiling.

Eventually he has to get up.

He changes into pyjamas—never actually got out of his work clothes last night—pulls on a sweatshirt, and finds Thomas between kitchen and sitting room, dressed in a worn hoodie and sweat pants that cover the tops of his feet. He’s staring at nothing, lines deep between his brows, one hand ticking absently against his thigh. As soon as Newt enters the sitting room, though, all movement ceases.

Newt clears his throat and takes a seat on the couch, well within Thomas’s eyesight if he just turns his head. “How are you feeling?”

Thomas doesn’t answer, but his breathing quickens, lifting his shoulders. Expanding his ribs. Newt’s eyes crawl over him: his familiar frame, the length of his legs, the curl of his fingers. His hair is damp. He showered while Newt slept. Newt imagines he can smell Thomas, his skin and hair and clothing.

He feels it the instant Thomas decides to speak. “You don’t like sex?”

Okay, then. Straight to it. Newt shifts his seat. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just…” Shit, he’s not really defined it for himself in so many words. It’s a feeling, a knowledge, bone deep. The last time he tried to articulate it out loud, Thomas had been well out of his life. “It’s not something I would normally seek out.”

Something squeezes around Thomas’s eyes. He’s still looking off, somewhere out the window to the backyard. Newt can’t tell what he’s seeing. He nods, slowly. “You’re asexual.”

“Not ace. Gray-ace, or graysexual. I don’t exactly feel…urges. I mean, I do, but not—” Ah, hell. “I get it. I feel it. But I don’t always want it for me. If that makes sense. It’s complicated.” Such a cop out. He doesn’t know what to say. He should have prepared for this, thought it out last night, but all he’d been able to do was look at Thomas.

“So for—fuck. Twelve years. I’ve been…” Thomas’s hand flicks back and forth between them.

“You’ve been what?”

Thomas presses both palms to his eyes, then turns in place, all the way around. Runs fingers fast through his hair. His eyes are red-rimmed again, and he looks completely strung out. “I’ve been forcing you to…”

He gestures again, but Newt is already on his feet.

“Tommy.” He snatches at Thomas’s hand, snags it on the second try despite Thomas’s evasion, and draws him in. “Listen to me. I love having sex with you. I love it.”

“You ‘love’ it.” The tone is disbelieving. The look on Thomas’s face is worse. 

He needs a different approach. He swings Thomas’s hand a little, gives him a half smile. “Tommy, come on. Have you ever been able to make me do something I don’t want to do?”

Thomas stares at Newt. His face twists. “Well, I don’t know, do I?”

And that pain is... acute. Newt drops Thomas’s hand. Takes a deep breath. This is not working, not going at all how it should. 

Thomas’s expression morphs; his mouth opens, and he drops his head forward. “God.” It hisses from him. “I’m sorry, Newt. I didn’t mean that you... Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The carved out feeling draws back a little. But the emptiness it leaves behind is something new. Newt sits down again, places his hands in his lap. “Well, you haven’t. Alright? You have never forced me, or pressured me, into anything I wasn’t totally on board for.”

Thomas continues to shake his head. Newt’s not fully convinced he’s heard him. “Thomas.”

Thomas’s head comes up. “I’m sorry. For saying that, for—”

“Yeah.” Thomas has never, ever called him a liar before. Never even implied it. Anger tries to gain a foothold; Newt snuffs it out. _He’s hurting. You idiot, he’s scared, he’s hurting, come on._

“Newt.”

He reaches for Tommy’s hand again. “Yeah.”

But this time Thomas avoids his grip. He looks Newt in the eye. A shudder goes through him, dragging at the knot currently tying itself into Newt’s guts. Newt winds his own hands together instead, abruptly as frightened as he’s ever been: not of what’s coming, but of what nearly was. 

“All I know is that I want you, every day,” he says. “And I love you. And everything we do is…” Why can’t he find the words? “Is perfect, and right, and makes me feel even happier in the next moment than I did in the last. Sex isn’t the end-all for me; _you_ are.”

“Me,” Thomas says, flat. Panic rises in Newt’s throat.

“You’re the love of my life, Tommy, and you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve showed me more of me than anyone else ever has.”

Wow. Maybe he can find the words.

“I’ve never been forced,” he continues quietly. The room narrows around them. “Not by anyone, and certainly not by you. Everything I do with you I have enjoyed.” Immensely.

“How can you?” Thomas asks. It brings odd relief: some of the fight has left him. “If you don’t get aroused by sex.”

“You arouse me,” Newt says bluntly. “Being with you, being close to you, arouses me.” It’s not the sex, and it _is_ Tommy’s body in the end, but only because Tommy is in it. “And knowing you want to be with me, that you’re attracted to me like you are, arouses me.”

Thomas huffs. “‘Attracted to you.’ Shit, Newt, that’s nowhere near what I am.”

Newt finally reaches, thinks it alright, to take Thomas’s hand up. This time Thomas doesn’t resist. Newt threads their fingers, then turns their hands over, tracing the lines on Thomas’s palm. He eases Thomas closer; he can’t resist. “Sit down?”

He honestly doesn’t know if Thomas will. But he does, drops onto the couch beside Newt.

Newt wets his lips. “You’ve always known how to touch me.” The whisper, so close between their faces, tastes especially intimate.

Thomas makes a choked sound. “Always. Yeah. Sure.”

Because Thomas Edelman bulls ahead. Thomas Edelman is all movement, all action, never waiting, always crossing lines in pursuit of a goal, and he _knows_ it. Sometimes Newt forgets just how self-aware his boyfriend is. It’s easy to mistake it, when Thomas does the things he does.

“Yes, always.” There are so many instances, but one stands out above all the rest. “Do you remember the night after The Maze? The week you moved back here. Before we were together like this.” It’s been two years and they haven’t been back to that bar since. Thomas says nothing, so Newt soldiers on. It’s one of his dearest, also one of the hardest, memories. “Minho and Frypan and Brenda and Gally were there. Aris. You dragged your conference friends, and I met Teresa.”

Thomas utters a soft sound. “I remember.” Two such loaded words. Thomas is looking at him now, but Newt finds it hard to meet his eyes.

“You knew what was going on then. You may not have known to call it this but… I was a mess. I was upset, and I just wanted to, to have you, without all of them. Like we had been.”

Again, no answer. 

“You knew then,” Newt continues. That night washes back into his mind with all its frills and missteps. “You knew what was going on with me, that I wasn’t _there_ anymore. And you backed me off and you brought me back.”

Thomas fidgets. The weight of his arm against Newt’s is warm. Newt remembers viscerally the way Thomas had held him that night, cradled against his bare body, their chests heaving out of sync, until suddenly they weren’t out of sync anymore. He remembers a hundred other things, too: warm school nights, laughter in a dark backseat, discomfort, success, attempts at things that didn’t work, and simple steps forward after, in a new direction. “You did exactly what I needed. You always do exactly what I need. Before that, since then… So you didn’t know what to call it. Neither did I, at first. You still understood what to do.”

“I just wanted you happy again,” Thomas whispers.

 _I wasn’t sad._ But maybe that’s how it had looked to Thomas: Newt averse to touch, pensive. Distant.

He squeezes Thomas’s hand. “That was never anything you did. Never. But when it happened, you always, always did what I needed. Whether it was nothing, or… or everything.”

 _You’re a natural._ His heart swells, hot and ferocious, makes it hard to breathe. _You understood me, like no one else has in my life. I will_ never _let you go again, Tommy._

_Do you understand that?_

“But there were times.” Thomas draws a deep breath. “Times you didn’t like it. I remember those, too.”

Newt shrugs. “Well, yeah.” Thomas starts up, and Newt overrides him. “And those times, you stopped, and we did something different.”

Thomas’s mouth snaps open, then slowly shuts. Newt waits, eyebrows raised.

“I did,” Thomas says. Breathes, really.

“You did. _We_ did.”

Thomas rearranges their hands, clenching a little. His mouth trembles, lips pressed together. “I just don’t want to have hurt you. It’s the very last thing in the world I ever want to do.”

Newt rubs his eyes, feeling very tired. Of this, and of himself. He’s worked hard to kick this self-blame. _This is who you are, Newt Isaacs, no apologies._ But damn it, sometimes it’s so difficult to remember. “Same. I should have said something. But Tommy, you really do know how to read me. That’s part of why I feel about you… the way I do. We just get each other.” _Without trying._ But that’s not right, and he needs to try. Be clear. They both do. “I’m sorry for not saying. If it’s anyone’s business besides mine, it’s yours.”

“I’m sorry for not asking.” And God almighty, _that’s_ his Tommy, every inch. Responsibility is never just a word to him.

“You’ll tell me,” Thomas murmurs. “If ever you don’t want to do something.”

“I never don’t want to do something.” It’s the truth. “Not when it’s with you.”

Thomas peers at him. “Why didn’t you say anyway?”

Newt doesn’t really know. “It never mattered with you. I never had to explain myself. You made me feel things I’ve never felt. Not with anyone else. I just wanted all of you.”

Thomas’s face opens. It’s like he forgets Newt’s in the room. “No one else?”

Newt ticks his tongue. “Tommy. When I saw you, everything else went dim.”

Thomas leans forward, and then goes very still. A new, bracing chill runs down Newt’s spine. He takes Thomas’s face in both hands and guides him back along the path he aborted. Presses a slow kiss to his mouth. Breaks it well before he’s ready and lets Thomas go. Thomas runs his tongue over his lower lip, watching him, and Newt takes a breath.

“What I don’t want is for you to handle me with kid gloves now.” It’s unavoidable. It’s already happening. Newt knows this. But Thomas nods, slowly. His eyes skip back and forth between Newt’s.

“Alright.”

“Just… do what you normally do.” _Please._

“Alright.”

At last, Newt looks away, down at their hands, and relinks his fingers pointedly with Thomas’s. “And I truly am sorry. For not ever telling you. I’m so…so sorry. I really didn’t think it mattered.” He doesn’t know how he could have thought it, now.

Fingers brush his face. “It matters that I know you.”

 _You do know me._ He holds it back. That’s not what Thomas means. “I’m the same me,” he says carefully. “I haven’t changed.”

“Okay.”

“You hear me?”

Thomas kisses his thumb. “I hear you.”

Newt nods. Swallows, and nods again.

“Can I…?” Thomas asks. And there it is, that flash-burn of disquiet, a hitch in time that was never there before. Newt sighs. Thomas does kiss him though, firm and a little bit searching. Just like he always does. He rubs Newt’s side, up and down, fingers patting once. An apology.

**

He wakes in his favorite position: spooned around Thomas with their ankles crossed, and it’s so much better than yesterday morning. The in and out of Thomas’s breathing is a separate pulse from the heartbeat thudding counterpoint to Newt’s. He’s not sure what woke him. By the look of the light, it’s well into day. Thomas is so warm, smells like sleep and sunlight and Newt is drowsy, fuzzed around the edges, until Thomas shifts again, right out of his arms.

Newt whines low in his throat, tightening his grip, but Thomas just huffs and turns over to face him.

“Hey, calm it down, now.” Lips press to Newt’s brow. “I’ll be right back.”

And indeed he is, though Newt’s not sure how long it actually takes; at some point, the bed dips, Thomas is touching his arm, and the most _wonderful_ aroma of bacon slinks into Newt’s nostrils.

“Oh my god.” Newt comes fully awake with a swift suck of air, struggling upright to find a full plate in his lap. Eggs, sourdough toast with strawberry jam, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and of course, the bacon.

“Sunday,” Thomas says, pecking him on the mouth, and Newt grins at him until suddenly the sleep-haze washes away and he remembers why this Sunday isn’t the same as the rest.

Should he bring it up? Thomas hasn’t; he’s settled back against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with Newt, picking at the goodies heaped onto their plate. So Newt draws a breath and—tentatively—eats breakfast. 

“Time’s it?” he manages through a cheekful of toast. 

“Uh, it’s…” Thomas cranes around for a clock and then gives up. “AM.”

“Oh.” Newt rolls his eyes and purloins an extra strip of bacon. “Good that.”

“It _is_ good.” Thomas slips both arms around him, leaning over Newt’s shoulder. Newt feeds him a bite of egg.

“You make all this?” There’s coffee on the bedside table for Thomas, tea for Newt.

“Well, it didn’t make itself.”

“You hate fried tomatoes.”

“They’re so soggy.” Thomas pokes at one, until Newt forks it up and puts him out of his misery by devouring it.

“Well,” he says, leaning back and planting a kiss against the corner of Thomas’s mouth, “thank you especially, then.”

The _you’re welcome_ gets lost as Thomas tilts his head into the kiss, as Newt winds his fingers into Thomas’s hair. He should care that he hasn’t brushed his teeth, but they never care about that, not on Sundays, not after breakfast, not—

Thomas pulls back before Newt expects it, an exhalation puffing over Newt’s mouth. “Eat,” he says, a little throatily. “You’re still hungry.”

Yes, he is, but not for food. “Tommy?” he says, setting the plate aside next to the mugs.

“Newt?” Thomas’s voice is definitely unsteady, that tremor he gets when he’s tipping toward the edge. There’s a familiar flush in his cheeks, and his pupils have gone large. Newt leans over him, planting his hands either side of Thomas and kissing him again, gentle at first, but not for long; Thomas opens to it with a soft intake of air. He returns the kiss nip for nip, thrust for thrust. 

But he pushes no further.

So this is how they will talk about it. Desolation rears; Newt pushes it firmly back down. Alright, then. He knows Tommy’s mind. He’s always known Tommy’s mind when it was important—he has to trust that, he can’t afford to doubt now. It’s clear Thomas is invested, in the day, in the two of them on this day. If Thomas won’t take the reins, then Newt will.

He presses Thomas back, leaning into him, adding heat and weight, and feeling Thomas rise to it in spite of himself. If Thomas can coax Newt into the right frame of mind without even knowing what the real issue is, then Newt can damn well return the favor. If he’d just told Thomas in the first place—

Yeah, no chance he’s diving into that cave now. There will be plenty of time to visit on a day that isn’t Sunday, that isn’t theirs.

It takes no time at all to get Thomas flat on his back and as rumpled as the sheets, his hands fisting and releasing in Newt’s shirt like he can’t decide what to grab onto. Newt pulls the shirt off and drops it over the side of the bed—immediately Thomas’s hands alight on his ribs—then urges Thomas upright enough to rid him of his shirt as well. Thomas is already hard in his boxers, as hard as Newt; his whole chest is pinking up now, and his body undulates with every roll of Newt’s hips, chasing instinctively after what he wants. Newt wonders if Thomas notices what he’s doing, and what he’ll do once he does. Stop? Newt isn’t going to give him the chance to think about it. 

It’s nice to be in control like this, though, to pare Thomas down to this base state where he’s all formless sound and unthinking motion, where all he wants is Newt. They’ve been here before, but this time there’s an added element, as potent as salt: caution. Thomas does not act; he reacts, half a heartbeat behind Newt. His eyes skip over Newt’s face, heavy lidded but always watchful. Newt revises: Thomas _is_ aware of what his body is doing. He knows, and he’s holding back.

A shared breath, another, and Newt abruptly recognizes exactly what he wants to do. There will be no doubts today about how aroused he is.

He sits up, astride Thomas’s hips, and gets what they need from the bedside table, then lifts off to kick free of his boxers. Thomas watches with avid eyes, his hands skating after Newt’s but not taking the initiative, just following where Newt leads. It’s unfamiliar, it’s not… them. Newt wastes no time stripping Thomas, until they’re both naked and pressed flush, gooseflesh pebbling Thomas’s skin as Newt rocks down on him.

But this hesitance. It’s still just the wrong side of easy, and the question is welling up behind his teeth.

Thomas opens his mouth first. “Newt, are you sure that you…” Unfinished, let loose in a mash of syllables. 

Newt studies his face. “Do you trust me?” he asks, point blank, and Thomas goes very still, looks right into Newt’s eyes.

“Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, I do.”

Newt hadn’t known he was scared until the relief swells over him. He grabs the lube and opens himself up, watching Thomas’s face. It’s been a while since he’s done this; usually Thomas is the one to get him ready, to coax them together, and so his fingers trip a little, his own touch surprises him. The reaction he gets is stark and beautiful: Thomas’s cheeks flush red, his eyelids sinking low. He scrutinizes Newt with that absurd focus of his, the kind that eats away at everything until Newt’s not certain he’s knows where he is. Just that he’s with Thomas, and that’s all he needs.

He draws it out, gets Thomas inside him slowly, painstakingly, until Thomas clutches at his thighs, hands trembling against Newt’s skin, fingers pressing hard. Thomas’s breaths become gasps, become unfinished words, become broken sound as Newt works him toward a plateau. With each passing second, Thomas lifts further, bit by bit off the bed, lets go a little more, the tendons in his neck straining like fine cord. His eyes slide shut, pinch at the corners, a pained, blissful tension. Newt gets to the edge first just watching him and is forced to back off; Thomas falls back to the bed with a shattered sigh, lifting one sluggish hand to fist in his own hair. He utters something, half growl, half whine. Newt frowns, takes Thomas’s hand up and presses it flat to his chest. “Touch me.”

Thomas does immediately, springing to follow the order with both hands. Languid sweeps, just the kind Newt likes, teasing the heat to the surface again little by little. Newt has half a mind to come without being touched, if he can, but he knows from years of experience that there’s only one way they’ll accomplish that.

He drags his pillow down the bed beside them and bends low. Grazes Thomas’s mouth with his teeth, then smiles at the way Thomas chases after the kiss. “Tommy?”

“Y…” Thomas swallows. “Yeah.”

“I want you to fuck me. Now.”

Thomas locks eyes with him, and Newt holds his breath.

Then—A heave, a twist of muscled thigh as Thomas rolls him over. Newt gasps at the punch inside, planting his feet and shoving up into Thomas. He reaches down through light-headedness and skidding pulse to adjust the pillow properly—then just drops back, a keen rising in his throat as Thomas grips one of his hands and drives into him, fingers tight at his hip, _just_ the right angle, _just_ fast enough, deep enough—oh—god—

“Tommy.” It spills from him once, twice, then he loses count, curls his toes over Thomas’s back and tries to repay what he’s getting, but he should know better, he can’t speak, can barely think. When Thomas curls down, rolls his hips into Newt’s, right into a messy, sucking kiss, Newt loses his grip entirely, stutters up full bodied against Thomas’s chest, shudders and rides it and _rides_ it and, and—

Heat spears straight down the backs of his thighs, plunges to the core of him. Precise. Overwhelming. He inhales and gets a lungful of sex and sweat, of Thomas, and he clamps around him, arms, legs, every muscle clenching at once, urging Thomas on until he lets go, thrusts and thrusts until Newt rocks up the bed, his back rubbing into the sheets with a delicious burn. And then Thomas lets out a _sound_ that judders into Newt’s lungs, folds down atop him, and comes, too, his whole body rigid. 

“Shit,” Thomas whispers after a moment. _“Newt.”_

“Yes,” Newt says, dazed, vision half white from euphoria and every inch of him tingling. Thomas mouths at his throat. Newt feels the brief sting of teeth.

“Newt.” His name shakes. The delight is plain on Thomas’s face, his laughter sudden. He presses his forehead to Newt’s chest and rolls it there, shoulders quaking. “Holy shit, good _morning.”_

“Good morning.” Newt lifts both arms up over his head. Difficult with the headboard right there, but he does get a good stretch in his shoulders, sending new bliss skidding down his spine where it trips into a proper aftershock. He tenses up, hisses between his teeth, hips hiking uncontrollably. Feels Thomas tense as well.

He opens his eyes after to find Thomas smiling at him, rosy-cheeked and sweaty, and… happy. Pleasure steals through Newt’s chest, smug and unfettered for the first time since yesterday. _He_ did this, brought Thomas to this state. He touches Thomas’s mouth.

When Thomas pulls back, Newt stops him. “No, just…” He purses his lips and tucks his legs tighter round the back of Thomas’s thighs. Keeps him close. “Stay.”

Thomas slowly lowers himself back down, onto his elbows either side of Newt’s face, until their chests, their heaving bellies, are flush. His eyes move, never still, searching and searching Newt’s face. Newt slides his arms up Tommy’s sides, around his back. Curls his hands over Tommy’s shoulders to anchor them together.

“This… can’t be the comfiest,” Thomas says eventually.

No, it’s not: Newt’s back strains a little, his pelvis crooked oddly against the pillow underneath, and he thinks his toes are falling asleep. But it’s good. It’s _good._ “I like it just fine, Tommy,” he admonishes, a touch primly, and a smile breaks across Thomas’s face.

“So do I.” 

He’s so _hot,_ inside Newt and atop him, every minute twitch of muscle projected straight into Newt’s nerves. He shivers, makes himself relax each limb. Listens with a full heart to Thomas as he curses quietly at the movement and shuts his eyes.

Immediately they’re open again, scouring Newt’s face. “You just like being close to people, don’t you?” His tone is wondering.

“To you.” But he nods, thoughtful. “Intimacy’s a big thing with me.”

Thomas laces fingers through his hair. It’s sweaty. That kind of thing used to embarrass Newt. Now it barely blips his radar. “How long you want to stay like this?”

Newt scrunches up his face. “Still Sunday, innit?”

Thomas snorts. “Yeah. For the next fourteen hours.”

Newt grins, unabashed, and after a second, Thomas grins back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyric at the chapter head is from MAX's _Lights Down Low_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

 

He knew it was coming. He knew it.

It’s still hard to face down.

Of course Thomas touches him. Physical contact for Thomas is like breathing: the better he loves you, the more he expresses it in touch and in proximity. Newt can see how other people might be startled by it, might even take offense, but it has never bothered him. In fact, it’s his third favorite thing about Thomas, after his ridiculous amount of energy and the way he smiles.

And it’s hard not to have it anymore.

Alright, yes, he’s being dramatic. Thomas touches him constantly: moving around him to get to the floss when they’re both in the bathroom, leaning in to snag the milk from Newt's fridge, tousling his hair in passing on his way to bed. But it’s all unconscious, that. The second Thomas starts to think about what he’s doing, all bets are off; Newt can see it as it happens, and he damn well _knew_ this was coming.

Thomas tries, he really does. If it weren’t for all the years between them, Newt would hardly catch the pause before fingers alight on his nape, the extra breath between the first kiss and the second when everything turns heavy. But he knows Thomas. These days, he lives and breathes to Thomas, his heart beats to Thomas.

“Please don’t be so careful with me,” he says once, half heartbroken over it all, and Thomas abandons his spot on the couch to pace the room and drag his hands through his hair. But he sits right back down without saying a word and gathers Newt against him, then flips the channel to BBC America for Graham Norton, and they watch.

** 

But it leaves Newt out of breath, halfway to hyperventilating, wondering just how much a person can bollocks everything up with one truth.

“You can’t,” Thomas tells him, neck deep in their kisses with Newt pressing him into the couch, and oh, obviously speaking his fears aloud. Only, Thomas grips his hips and gives him a firmer squeeze than usual, until Newt has to look him in the eyes, so awkwardly close. Breathing the same air. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas starts, “this is my fault—” and fuck that noise, Newt refuses to let him finish.

**

There was one extended weekend where they went to Santa Cruz, and when they got to their Airbnb, they just dropped down onto the couch into each other’s arms and sat there all day, and the next day, too. They talked. They mainlined X-Files. They settled cross-legged onto the carpet in boxers and tees and went through three carne adobada burrito bowls while Thomas flattened Newt at Scrabble despite Newt’s most reliable methods of cheating. They went to bed late and they got up late, and then they did it all over again. 

They didn’t have sex once that trip. That was when Newt started to worry. Maybe this might not work for Thomas.

“Pfft.” Thomas hauled him back into his arms under the umbrella, the beach stretching out on either side of them and the waves crashing against the massive rock arch sticking out of the water. “Are you kidding me? Now hold still, you’re warm and it’s chilly.”

“We could go sit in the sun. Just throwing that out there.”

“Then we’d fry.” Thomas adjusted his sunglasses and hooked his ankle with Newt’s. And Newt read, and Thomas dozed, and the sun sank slowly into the sea, and eventually they drove into town for ice cream.

**

Newt begins backing Thomas into things. It’s not really a big change; there isn’t much in this world that he wouldn’t kiss Thomas against, or do more against, given the right circumstances. If Thomas comes and he doesn’t, that’s fine, mission accomplished. His libido has never been the overriding factor. There are just so many things he wants about Thomas that it rarely causes an issue. And Thomas is almost always ready to go. Newt loves watching him come, loves making it happen. Thomas takes a lot of pleasure in his own body, and sometimes Newt envies that in an abstract way, but it’s mostly that he feels that, despite his best efforts, there are things he’ll never quite _get_ about Thomas, and he wants to know everything.

“You are so _into_ this,” he marvels, like he has before, on his knees in the shower this time with his mouth hovering over the myriad marks he’s left on Thomas’s hips and thighs, the taste of soap on his lips and Thomas’s cock hard and, so far, untouched. This time, though, Thomas looks down at him and the understanding passes between them, and that’s different. Now that comment will always carry extra weight. Now it will never be as funny as it was, or as simple.

Maybe—he hopes—this will be better.

**

Thomas always, always was with him, before. Reading him, anticipating, driving them both toward a peak that Newt couldn’t always see clearly until Tommy pulled him right over it into freefall. And sometimes the climb took longer than other times, sometimes the fall was shallow and drifting, and sometimes Thomas ignored it entirely right after, so intent on Newt that the peak couldn’t possibly have been the point. But he was with him. 

Now he’s never with him. Now he’s always a half beat behind.

**

“Are _you_ into this?” Thomas asks, stroking Newt off slowly, tortuously. 

Newt groans, arching off the couch, pushing into Thomas’s grip and so hot around the throat that his skin prickles. “Yes,” he grits out, “yes, yes, I’m into this, look at me, I’m so hard I could—”

“Could what?” Thomas shifts the angle, his voice dropping a register, and Newt falls silent, rocks on the rim, _loving_ this man, fuck, fuck, _fuck—_

He comes down with a gusty sigh, tangling their fingers and yanking Thomas down on top of him. Thomas drops willingly, regardless of the mess and of his own untended erection, and lays a string of soft kisses against Newt’s jaw. 

“That okay?” It’s so… ‘tentative’ isn’t quite the word. But curious, and absorbed. Honest.

“Thomas, I love you,” Newt says, his voice shaking as much as his insides. He doesn’t know what else to say anymore. “Alright? I love you.”

**

The truth is, they don’t have sex as much anymore. And Newt sincerely did not have a problem with the amount they were having before, but he also kind of likes this too. How can he like both situations, though? He’s glad of the lack of sex and he also really _misses_ the sex, and he just... He doesn’t know how he feels.

**

“Is this, um.” Every time he starts, it feels ridiculous, something he shouldn’t bother asking. “Is this going to be enough for you?”

It’s warm out, lying in the unmown grass in Thomas's backyard with the sun low in the sky and the crickets starting up in the next yard. Thomas’s eyes track over Newt’s face, and Newt’s heart thunders painfully in his chest. 

The worst part is that he can tell Thomas is really thinking about the answer.

Finally— “You know I was never just in it for the sex, Newt.”

Newt nods. Thomas nods. His eyes come to rest somewhere around Newt’s throat. “I love sex. I love touching you. I love the way you smell, and how you look and how you sound. I love bringing you to the edge and then pushing you over it. But I wouldn’t love it if it wasn’t good for you, if you didn’t enjoy it. I love _you,_ first. Always.”

Newt bites his lip and nods again.

“You are _enough_ for me. Sex, no sex, just kissing you or lying here next to you or, shit, just… Newt, you’re my best friend. My _best_ friend. Honestly, the thing that scared me most when we weren’t together, and when for a while there at the end, I thought you were going to put a stop to all of it—”

Newt rears up. “Wait, what?”

“Let me finish, alright? The scariest thing was not being able to talk to you. Not having you in my life.” The last three words, he emphasizes with three gentle shakes to Newt’s upper arms. “I’d have given up everything else just to keep that.”

Newt frowns. “Yeah, but I don’t want you to give up everything else, you shank. I want you to get what you need out of this.” He means to say, _or be free to find what you need,_ something stupid and dramatic like that, but shucking hell, he cannot utter those words, he will never utter those words.

Thomas snags his hand. “I don’t need sex, not every day. Maybe not ever. I’ve never tried that, but if you wanted—”

“Yeah, that won’t be necessary.”

“That’s actually kind of a relief? But seriously, if you’re getting what you need out of me, whatever it is, then I’m getting what I need.” An odd smile steals across Thomas’s face. He squints at Newt, shielding his eyes from the sun’s lingering glare between the trees. “You know, I think I just answered my own question.”

“About?”

“Sex, and what’s so different between you and me. How I can ever, you know. Be sure.” _That you’re enjoying yourself._

“Not so different after all?” Newt murmurs, smirking. He rests his head on Thomas’s chest and listens to his heartbeat for a moment. “Now what is this about me putting a stop to everything?”

Thomas sighs. “You said—do you remember? Right before I told you I’d moved back. ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore,’ something like that.”

Newt thinks back. “Yes, and I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Now. Then, it sounded for a second like…”

Newt inhales. Thomas inhales with him. “Okay,” Newt breathes. “Sorry to have scared you.”

Thomas kisses him, slow and full. “Forgiven.”

...

_Nobody's ever loved me to the truth like you._

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyric at the end of the fic is from _Nobody_ by Selena Gomez.


End file.
